


The Dusk Cataclysm -- a D&D campaign

by ariiadne



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Dragonborn (D&D), Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons Campaign, Homebrew Content, Paladin, dragonturtle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22992604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariiadne/pseuds/ariiadne
Summary: A collection of writings associated with my longest-running d&d character, a lawful neutral dragonborn paladin named Kallias. Mostly for posterity. If people read it and like it then, hey, that's great.Not a typical dragonborn though-- homebrewed, and related to a dragonturtle.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Anatomy




	2. Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the weird birth of our protagonist

Philippa had witnessed several births— helped with a handful, even. On ships, at port. Her fellow women apparently loved shitting these things out. And what wasn’t to like? Getting swelled for months like a body too long in the water; wanting to eat everything and nothing at the same time… Gods forbid she sleep on the wrong side. And, of course, there was the little fucker in there kicking and tossing. The scullery maid always dreamed of having to piss every five seconds— not to mention becoming woefully aware of just how many ribs she had floating around in her chest. Now, as she sat sweaty and angry, contractions becoming almost too much to bear, she also had to deal with a fucking cat staring at her.

Just sitting. Disinterested eyes half-lidded still focused on her nevertheless, black tail swishing back and forth against the rhythm of the waves. As if nothing was wrong. Nothing different. The loud, crass woman was still loud and crass; only today she swore loudly and crassly on her blankets than out and about on the island.

“Should’ve left you with the rest, I should’ve,” she hissed through her teeth, glaring squarely back at it. A languid blink in return. _“For the company,”_ she mocked in a sing-song tone, _“Cat didn’t do shite. Just a fooking cat.”_

Every muscle in her body tensed. The fabric burned against her skin the tighter she squeezed it. Philippa let loose a crescendoing scream that rang against the walls of her shelter, funneled into the afternoon air like the blast of a horn. Seagulls screeched and fled. That finally managed to spook the damn animal, eliciting a bitter sneer from the laboring woman. She was loath to let anything else sit around comfortably as she suffered. Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t earned.

There were no words to describe this pain. Nothing to compare it to. Did it feel like someone slowly ripping apart her insides while jumping up and down on her abdomen? She wouldn’t know; she’d never had her insides slowly ripped apart with someone jumping up and down on her abdomen. But, she figured it was close enough. And gods was she hot. Philippa could feel the sweat dripping down her back, the rest of her body coated in a light film. Her gaze darted to the nearby shore and wondered if she should just scuttle down into the water and have the sharks put her out of her misery. What better chum than a newborn?

Philippa settled for throwing her head back and stringing together obscenities instead.

* * *

Philippa knew how to read the sky better than the alphabet. She could tell seasons, months, maybe even exact days based on the positions of the stars. And she did so while stranded on the small atoll. Mostly because she had little else to do, tallying the nights like a prisoner in their cell. Except she had to climb trees for their fruits, spear her own fish, and find fresh water to stay alive. Prisoners had it better than she did.

Some of her favorite stories as a child were those of female pirates parading as men, and, when they were caught to be hanged, revealed their secret. Being a woman wasn’t enough, though; they would then claim to be pregnant to escape the noose. Showed her that their curse could be a cure as well. So when that big ugly fuck held that forsaken ship hostage, well— it wasn’t _quite_ the same scenario. It was someone goes or everyone dies. She went. They still died. Those fuckers deserved it anyway.

Philippa liked to think she was like those women in the tales. Brave. Vibrant. Amazing. Bearing a child to survive. Rebelling against unjust laws and reclaiming riches from those who didn’t need more than they already had. This wasn’t something she chose, though. It wasn’t her daring or adventure that brought her here. The story of her life was sad, and pathetic, and she fully expected to die in the belly of those ships whenever her time came. Scrubbing up after everyone else, covered in their filth. This wasn’t the first time in her life that she tried to break away from that life. This was simply the only time it seemed to work.

And she didn’t know how to feel about it.

* * *

Her head flopped to the cushions, bits of hair clinging to her face, chest heaving almost desperately for air. That hadn’t taken as long as she thought it would. Philippa remained unmoving, the hill of her legs blocking whatever she produced. She would never admit to the fear blocking her throat, making it difficult to swallow. A short pregnancy. A relatively quick birth. A child demanded by a dragonturtle and facilitated by some god. What exactly had she brought into the world?

Philippa kept her legs up and firmly closed. Agonizingly slow moments ticked by. Waiting. Finally, it began to stir. Small, pitiful grunts first. She could feel it squirming through the blanket. Then, a weak wail. Her heart jumped— and then fell. It only sounded… almost normal. There was something else— something strange and alien in the ‘child’s’ voice. A quick glance to Rats showed the cat looking to the source of the noise, eyes wide and ears flicked forward. That all but confirmed it. It was something animal in the babe’s cries that froze her there.

She resisted five or so minutes of gradually louder and more distressed yowling. Philippa lifted her cloud of dark brown curls from where it lay. And she parted her knees.

Hand damming her mouth, Philippa immediately crashed back down, thighs slapping back together as if shutting the door against something unwelcome. She wanted to believe she didn’t see what she saw. Wanted to believe that her vision might be off from the strain of the birth. Or poorly-adjusted from the bright light beyond the cave’s mouth. Or, hell, even slipping as she aged. Her grandfather had gone blind. Why not her?

But, no. Upon daring a second look, her fears became realized. And, again, she stiffened.

It was a boy. That much was certain. That much was normal. But it pretty much ended there. Tiny webbed fingers tipped with tiny sharp nails— his feet, too. A bizarre, dark… rash? coated most of his body. Good portions of his skin were covered in it: arms, legs, cheeks.

The cheeks.

Philippa recoiled, watching as the babe’s face seemed to split with every cry. Looking away, she fought down bile bubbling in her gut.

What had she done? What had she made?

What did she expect?

Did she honestly think this would end normally? That a dragonturtle’s request for a child be innocuous? That a god would shape one for it and make it ordinary? Again, she wanted to. Again, she closed her eyes and wished to wake up like she had so many days and nights stuck on this island. And, again, she didn’t.

Philippa did her best to suppress her scowl as she scooted forward, righting herself. All babies came out sort of ugly, in a way. And, in her mind, it made some cruel, self-deprecating sense that hers would probably just end up being the ugliest. Either that, or the boy simply took after his ‘father’ after all.

Hesitant hands floated just above the babe. When Philippa managed to convince herself to pick him up, the softness and fragility of the thing surprised her— despite his abnormalities, and despite her previous experiences with young children. The bumps on the little one’s skin were actually smooth; all at once, she realized they were scales. At least, where scales might one day be.

“Big fucker wasn’t lyin’,” she breathed, a faint curiosity intermingling within her otherwise uncomfortable expression.

The babe’s screams suddenly and drastically tapered. Philippa blinked, and she left him dangling there in her stunned silence. His ensuing whines shook her from this state.

“Know my voice, do you?”

The question was a shaky attempt at maintaining any semblance of composure. Especially since the infant responded just as he had before: he calmed significantly, using whatever control over his limbs he had to wriggle about. Philippa drew him to her then, her head going tingly.

Next was the tit, wasn’t it? She shimmied the well-worn blouse from her heavily-freckled shoulders. The babe barely required any guidance, latching only seconds after introduction. His wails turned into tender, thirsty hums as he ate. It happened in an instant. Philippa let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. A finger brushed against a drying tuft of his dark hair. It was the same color as hers.


	3. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-campaign intro to the boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background, since our DM’s world is pretty different from canon… there exist no dragonborn as described in the PHB *on this plane.* They reside instead in Aebir, whilst this campaign takes place on Toril. The continent of Mithlonde is entirely original. If there are any other major deviations, I will be sure to explain them. Thanks

## 1\. The Harbor

Old bones draped themselves in layers of tattered, soiled clothing. He was used to stiff joints, so garment after garment that hampered them further didn’t bother him much. The world outside was still dark, with only a few obnoxious birds singing before the dawn. Even in winter, the smell of low tide clogged the air. He tottered along the rickety piers, zigzagging between other rundown shanties haphazardly built wherever there was room; and there wasn’t much. The sounds of those inhabiting the shacks were hardly muffled by their thin walls. Plenty others like him stirred as well. Battered pail whining at the hinges, his gait hastened, hoping he might be the first to break water that morning. **  
**

His boat was still tied up where it’d been, but the departed tide left it lodged in what polluted sand and sludge it lay bare. Throwing in his bucket, he rubbed his hands together. It took a few good tries before it budged. Winded, the man proceeded to drag it to the shoreline, briefly fighting with the waves to get it out and jumping in.

It was a bitter morning, to be sure, but there was no real breeze to sharpen it. Unfortunately, without that, a thick fog enveloped the world, as if the clouds themselves had descended to the earth. But he wasn’t worried. He knew these waters. With both oars on either side of the dinghy, he rowed out.

When the shore had just about disappeared from view, both due to distance and dense mist, the man stowed his paddles and reached for his fishing line. Trembling, calloused fingers followed the line from beginning to end, untangling, inspecting. This line was real silk; his most prized possession. And his secret weapon. He blindly reached into his pail until he removed a large cockroach, quite dead. He painstakingly baited the hook with that as his lure, shimmied into a comfortable position, and cast it out. Now the age-old waiting game began. Bearded chin tucked into padded chest. He knew it well.

Though he snored loudly, it took only one tug on his line to jolt him from his slumber. One hand after another reeled the water-beaded thread in, though he could already tell it was a fluke. Probably just got skimmed of the bait. He swore the fish were getting smarter every year. But when the hook resurfaced, the roach still clung on. He sighed through a large, overgrown nose.

“Pardon the deception,” started a man’s voice, inexplicably, from nowhere. “You were taking too long to wake up, and I was getting impatient.”

Scrambling for an oar, knocking over his pail in the process, the old man wielded the paddle in his defense, eyes scouring the water. The boat rocked from his frenzy. Eventually, it calmed, and it was quiet once more. Out of breath for the second time that morning, the bedraggled, befuddled man reached blindly for the other oar. Gripping its shaft, he paused again, waiting. Nothing. He immediately set them into the water and began rowing.

The boat did not move.

“As alarming as this may be, I’m going to need you to stop.”

He did not. Mutterings of slurred and panicked prayers accompanied the splashes of his hectic sculling. It wasn’t long before each oar was ripped from his grasp, swallowed by the dark waters. “W-Whaddayou want?!” he shouted, body shifting from port to starboard, bow to stern.

“To talk.”

“Talk my arse!”

“Would you rather something else?” His tone was that of flat irritation.

“Bugger off!”

“After our conversation, perhaps.” The man began yelling for help, into the blank curtain that surrounded him and his small boat. The voice waited until he tired. “No one will hear you. You are quite far out.”

“Iffin’ yer wantin’ to talk, then talk face-to-face!” His voice wavered with each word.

“Unfortunately, you are not in any position to make demands. I have taken you out to sea and can, at any time, capsize your vessel. If the cold doesn’t take you, then I will make sure the water does.”

The tenor of indifference frightened him more than the threats themselves. “Get on with it, then!”

A hint of amusement, although faint. “Speaking with or drowning you?”

“Y’damn well know which!” he spat.

“Are you quite certain of that?”

A stunned interlude. “You always such a cheeky cunt fucker?”

“Yes.”

The fisherman scoffed. “Least yer honest.”

“Yes, well, now that we’ve finally established that,” the voice deadpanned, “I would like to get this over with so we may both go our separate ways.” The old man merely crossed his arms and sat, obstinately silent. “My questions are about your city.”

He fidgeted, anxious. “What kinda questions? I-I ain’t know much.”

“A man of many years such as yourself? If you truly do not know much, then you likely only know what is most important.” The voice carried traces of sincerity for the first time. Another short lull. “And they are general questions.”

Arms still tightly folded, he tried to sound forceful, but his voice lifted slightly at the end, and it sounded more like a question of his own, “Iffing I answer your questions, you leave me and my boat be?”

“I will leave you and your boat be, yes.”

The man drew in a long breath and peered futilely into the mist. “Get on askin’ then.”

The mysterious voice wasted no time. “I’d like to start with history, then. Do you know how old the city is? Who founded it? Other names it might have been called? That sort of thing.”

“I…I can’t hardly read, jus’ know what I knows. ‘History’…?” A wrinkled brow and a frown, “It’s… s’old enough? Built up. Destroyed. Settled over and over. But when or who…Uh?” He scratched at his chin, unsure of what to tell this disembodied voice. “I mean, long as memory goes, Glaivenport’s the only good port around. All trade, comin’ or going anywheres at all, it’s comin’ through here. So s’always changin’. Everybody wants in. Dunno ‘bout names or founders or anythink’ like that…”

“No, that will suffice. Merely suggestions.” Small waves knocked gently against the weathered hull. Far-off gulls screamed. “Who is in charge in Glaivenport?”

“In charge?” The man hummed thoughtfully. “Your questions sound simple but they ain’t.” He glanced back toward where the shore should be, the fog too thick to determine the truth of the voice’s claims. The man raised an old finger to point anyway. “Ashe Peninsula, right? Whole area s’pposed to be under the Council. The uh, Council of Merchants, called ‘ffically. But city’s big an’ full o’ warring powers. ‘City o’ Merchants and Thieves.’ Y’ever hear that phrase?”

“I cannot say I have.”

“Well. It gets said. On account’a all the guilds. Merchant. Thief. Trades. Dozens of ‘em. Squabblin’. After th’ port, s’what we’re known for.” A shake of the head sent the leather flaps of his cap along with the ends of his scraggly hair bouncing. “Council of the big merchants is th’ ‘fficial word, but lotsa other groups on the streets. Alls changin’ hands every now and again. Doubt they can even keep track theyselves. Find it’s best keep head down an’ out of it.”

Another – presumably digestive – pause. “And which names does everyone know?”

“Erm. The Zhent? They’ve been head o’ the Council a good long time. Some woman in charge, methinks. Lady… Summaterother…” He trailed off before brightening considerably. “An’ there’s the Madame and the Asters. Big lob o’ th’ Common Quarter’s hers. Makes ‘er important. S’where I’d spend my coin, if I had any…” He grinned broadly out into the air, with apparent distraction.

“… Anyone else?”

“Well. Lot o’ seats on the Council. Few not o’ these lands. Here-and-there types. Packin’ in and castin’ out ‘cross the Trackless Sea with thems goods.” He thinks again for a time. “Iron Throne a’ways has a spot. Run th’ iron trade all ‘round, like ‘sounds. Mines is a bad business, y’hear. I knows of blokes who’s gone off an’ never make it back. But that happens t’those go out t’ sea as well…”

A hum of understanding buzzed in the air. “There have been troubles on the sea lately, or so I hear.”

“Aye. Wrecks. Say somethin’s out there sinking merchant vessels.” The old fisherman became a bit more animated, drawing out his words for dramatic effect. “Not jus’ storms or the here an’ there pirate raid, neither, they says. Big. Strange. Monstrous. Jaws, claws, heads, tentacles, armies of drowners; y’hear it all. But they’s few survivors an’ tales is always half tales. Fools is swearing to Valkur all up an’ down the docks, not that I blame ‘em. More an’ more afeared to sign on to any o’ the bigger ships.”

“I see. That must be troublesome for business. Moreso in a city of ‘merchants and thieves.’”

“Bhalla’s great tits, if that ain’t true. They always causing trouble ‘mong theyselves. Shite like this jus’ makes it worse. Merchants in a tizzy; big ships sunk and caravans stilled in town makes ‘em bleed coin like stuck pigs. Puts ‘em at each others’ throats. More’n usual, anyhow. Thieves guilds preyin’ on the chaos, stirrin’ on the trouble, raidin’ warehouses, actin’ a-fool in the streets. S’what comes from there bein’ nary a honest job and more danger. People still gots to get by.” He shakes his head, knowingly. “I’s lucky to have my line and my boat.” Abruptly the man gave an irritated scoff, as if suddenly remembering this was not just a pleasant chat. “Had a pair o’ good oars too, ‘fore you flung ‘em, you nosy, bullyraggin’ bastard.”

A light snort. “And you will have them back when we are done here.” He left no time for the old man to argue. “If there is such chaos and lawlessness, is there no one to keep the peace?”

“They’s still laws. Council laws. Guild laws. Thieves’ even gots to follow they own codes. But you live ‘ere long as I have, you know any with any power’s jus’ out for theyselves. Followin’ rules as it suits ‘em, bendin’ soon as they can gets away with it.” The man shrugged, settling back down onto the unforgiving wooden plank beneath him, shifting his weight and stretching aching knees before him. “S’not all bad. Maybe I’s just ol’ and weary? We has the City Guard. They tries to do what they can for people, run checkpoints, patrols, an’ the like but whole thing’s…unsteady. S’dangerous first o’ all. An’ not enough trainin’ nor fundin’. ‘At sorts o’ things. Make’s ‘em more whistlers than anythink’.”

“Important, thankless work. So either they’re completely self-righteous or some of the few decent folk in the city. I wonder which.” As the grey sun rose into the sky with the dawn, the fog began to dissolve, albeit slowly.

“Decent folk anywhere. Right on next t’the badduns. That’s life, innit.” He chuckled to himself, “I ain’t that bitter. Reckon theys probably some good people up there in the black quarter or ‘round th’ Tower, just more o’ ‘em down here an’ on the Steppes, y’ask me. Simpler folk, at the least.”

“You say black quarter, so I assume that means there are three other major sections in the city including that one. And the steppes would be the surrounding lowlands?”

“Heh. Aw’right. We’ll go back a ways. The city, it’s sometimes four sections. Drives outsiders crazy, it does, but no matter how th’ territories changes, they usually get called ‘quarters.’ Black Quarter’s up north, some o’ the ports, chunks of th’ older city, and up inta the jags. Black cause o’ the’ Zhent. Things is all black with those fuckers. West o’ thems the Tower Quarter, that name don’t really change, big ol’ blackstone tower there makes sure o’ that. Hm. Draws money there. And magick and trouble. Thems fancy elves reach is weak here. Sounds good, but ‘ttracts a lotta bad magic. Runaways. On top o’ all the other sorts o’ criminals. Theys most round there. Shady. Knows what I’m talkin’ about?”

“I believe so. You speak of the magisters of Istar’tal, no doubt. And that their influence in the city is… slack. Allows for a more diverse population, so to speak. Why does their power fall short of Glaivenport? And you will have to go into more detail about this ‘blackstone.’ And the – presumably – remaining two quarters.”

The man drew in a long breath and looked about before reaching down for a fat waterskin displaced by his initial fear. “I’s winding meself. Been a’whiles since any been wanting t’hear so many words from an ol’ man like me.” He took a long draught.

“Take what time you need.”

“Hmm. Ain’t never heard o’ no drowner been so polite.”

“I meant only that you do not have the need or the means to be anywhere else,” the voice snapped, oddly defensive. “I did not realize that was considered polite.”

At this the man only chuckled, indeed, taking his time sipping from the skin, clearing his throat, and rolling his shoulders about to settle. Bony fingers replaced the cork as he disparaged, “Iffing only I’da brought somethink stronger this morn’. Couldn’ta known I’d be meeting you. What ever you is.” He shook his head and cleared his throat once again. “Where was we?”

“Magisters turning a blind eye. The other quarters. Blackstone.”

“Mm. Dunno know why exactly. Just lots o’ dangerous magicks you hear tell o’ here ain’t welcomed nowheres else. And o’ hidings out from them elves. Talks o’ witches and devils and curses and creatures all o’er, but magick shite ends up ‘round the Tower. Magickers a’ways fightin’ for it. ‘Cause it’s all blackstone. Rare. Hoarded by rich arsworms. Thieves innit too. Bigger guild. Velvet Hand.”

“I wonder what manages to keep such powerful figures at bay. Or who. Very likely isn’t that simple,” the voice ruminated, mostly to itself. “Why is blackstone so coveted, apart from its rarity?”

The man gave a shrug. “Old. S’posed to have powers or summat. Heard some rich louts decorate with it. Flaunt it. But ain’t never been near any. Dunno anybody ‘at has. Only seen the tower from a ways. Can’t nobody just get close.”

“Interesting.” Without warning, the boat started to gently rotate, the bow now pointing towards the shrouded shore. “So, that was three. The Black Quarter, the ‘Tower’ Quarter, and Common Quarter.”

The man made a small sound of surprise, bracing his hands beside him at the motion. “Woah. A’right. Las’ big section is th’ Harbourside. Should make sense why an’ where. Markets, piers, most o’ the guildhalls. Crowded, all the ships an’ people comin’ and goin’. Most business ‘appens there. Main drag go through it an’ the Commons. Shippings in an’ out. Comes down the coast ‘til you gets to hereabouts, ‘The Rickets,’ they calls it down here.” He pointed forward to demonstrate. “Water an’ land is too choppy for good docks or houses, so just gets crowded o’ people who can’t ‘fford or don’t want to be in the city proper.” 

“Such as yourself?”

“Aye.”

The slightest hesitation. “And what is your reason?”

He chuffed. “A little bit o’ both, I s’pose.”

A shadow of incredulity. “You choose that life?”

The fisherman’s response crept out tentatively at the sudden personal interest. “Ol’ man like me? Be lucky choosin’ t’get up each mornin’.” He tugged his whiskers, pensive. “Thought these questions was ‘bout the city.”

An oar shot out from the water and landed in the boat. “And of all the guilds,” the voice promptly continued, louder and now a tinge more brackish, “which guild do you find the most… reputable?”

He eyed the oar, almost wincing to admit, “Erm…not sure whating that means…”

“Trustworthy. Honorable. Respectable. If any remotely fit these criteria, even loosely.”

“Zhent s’pposed to protect th’ city, with the Council an’ their navy, but nones been here long enough don’t know they as deep in the underground as they is on the surface.” He hummed. “The branded ones is all cocks too. Darts is fucking pirates…hard not to think o’ the bad ones first. Honorable guilds?” He seemed to seriously consider it for a few moments. “Redshields an’ Seven Sons seems ones people like. Steady merchants. They hire an’ pay an’ no shenanigans you hear much. An’ Madame an’ House Devine, like ‘afore. The Commons has th’ danger after dark o’ any part o’ this city, but they gots the skin business an’ the churches. More…upfront, iffing you’d call it that.” Another small intermission stretched over the lapping water. “Heard there’s a lifter guild that said does deals in the open, info tradin’ more’n straight thievin’. In the Harbourside somewheres. But again, I tells you, it’s better to know less, end o’ the day.”

“Unfortunately, that is not an option.” The voice did seem honest, if not a bit weary. A soft surge proffered the second oar back to the surface where it drifted close by. “Anything else you can tell me about this information-dealing guild? Are they discreet?”

“I ain’t hear anything real bad regardin’ thems, whichins why I mentioned ‘em. That, and yous looking for information from somebodies like me, probably a group o’ interest t’you. But ain’t really hear much ‘bout ‘em none.”

“Hm. So they are either very good at what they do, or terrible. Have they been operating in Glaivenport for a time? If you’ve only heard little of them, then I would assume not. Especially if you say they do business out in the open.”

“Couldn’t rightly say. Work hard to not have to know too much of what goes on with the thievin’.” He shrugged. “Heard of ‘em on an off for years though. Buy, sell, gather info, far as I’s heard. Theys ain’t hidin’. Which is what makes ‘em different than th’ others. Fer a thieves guild t’ do that a’ways took it they had t’ be good or had huge sacks on ‘em. Bet it wouldn’t be too hard fer you t’ find out, iffin’ you has a body an’ was so inclined. Thems run out a tavern, Empty Hearth or summat. Hear tell the guildmaster hisself can be found there.” The man whistled an incredulous note. “Meets with anyone makes it worth ‘is time.”

“I see. Know anything more about this guildmaster? A name, at least?”

“Mm. Talkin’ ‘bout it, remember ‘cause it was strange. Heard ‘im called, ‘Brick.’”

“… Brick.”

“Aye. Brick. S'posed to be a big, rude bastard. Hard t’ miss.”

“That is all you know of him?”

“Reckon that s’all y’need t’ know, methinks.”

Empty moments passed. The fisherman twiddled his rough thumbs, wondering if he was expected to go on. He opened his mouth to speak but was, surprisingly, beaten to it. “This conversation has been very informative. Thank you.” Jaw snapping shut, the old man blinked, at a loss. “I would appreciate it if it were to stay between us. I may bring you closer to shore, if you like. If not, both of your oars have been returned.”

When his thoughts caught up to him, he popped up, almost spritely in his relief. Dangling one oar over the edge to pull the other close enough to knock softly with the waves against the old wooden vessel, he bent over to retrieve it. As he did so, his eyes squinted about, once more trying to find any evidence of the source of the voice itself. Disappointed, he hauled the second, sopping oar over the edge of the boat and turned his gaze back toward the land.

“Hells. Still thick as curdled soup out here.” The man grumbled aloud. “How fars did ye drag me, really?”

“The rising tide has done most of the work, pushing the shoreline farther away. I was not lying when I said I brought you out of earshot. A decent distance, to be sure, but nothing so excessive.”

“Weren’t really doubtin’ you.” He sighed. “Sun’s comin’ up and ain’t had so much as a nibble ‘fore all this chatter. Be a long day yet ‘fore can drag ashore at this rate… Iffin’ your offers likewise honest, saving these ol’ arms some an’ getting way from the depths quicker, I’d be obliged. Even iffin’ it were yer fault to begin with.” The old man again chuckled, good-naturedly.

There was no response, but the boat eventually began to drift slowly along on its own. The blurry shoreline became as clear as the mist would allow, the dinghy stopping about where it’d been originally. Then, nothing.

The old man smiled out into the still, silent air. “Well. After th’ startlin’, weren’t th’ worst thing, talkin’ to you. Iffin’ you aren’t just some drowner or evil spirit, hopin’ you find what it is yer after. Fair seas an’ fortunes to you, Voice o’ th’ Fog.”

It wouldn’t be more than an hour later, after he’d again settled into his still, patient watch, that something tugged once more at his line. His heart leapt nearly up his throat at the thought it might be the voice again, maybe having changed its mind, but he shook the notion from his head and focused on reeling in. There was definitely a fish this time, the clouds of his labored breaths a testament to his effort.

Wild, bushy eyebrows shot up a wrinkled brow. The fish was coming into view, and he could already tell it was a winner. He braced himself for a struggle. But there was none. Hoisting the catch up and over and into the bottom of the boat, the old man stared for a moment or two at its limp, motionless form. How could it die so quickly? He checked the hook, and it looped under the jaw and gills: normal, and certainly not fatal. No bite marks on its body to indicate a bigger fish took a bite at it on its way topside. It wasn’t until the salt-rusted gears in his mind cranked that it finally clicked. He would look up just in time to see part of a face in the distance, peeking from under the water before immediately dipping back down, out of sight.


	4. Battle vs Soakosh the Ascended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our party battles our first major boss, and in which the paladin (with 3hp) and the warlock are the only ones left standing to deliver the final blows. From Kallias’ POV. Soakosh is a yuan-ti anathema who has ascended to demigodhood with the blessings of Dendar, Sseth, and Mersshaulk.

Shield, sword, bash, strike, parry, dodge. He owes his life to this metal. Over, and over, and over again. Six heads, twelve fangs, venom oozing in thin, glassy ribbons. Each breath strains his lungs, for they are muscles just as tired as those in his arms, his chest. He must command them to expand, contract, lest he forget amid the dozen other movements he must make in a single moment. 

Valanthe appears out of the corner of his eye, a flash of dark grey fur, muzzle damp and bloody. From behind, brilliant beams of light surge forth and crash into Soakosh, allowing him that short second of reprieve to reposition, plan, prepare. Bolts whistle and thud into the monster’s thick hide. For the first time, the creature betrays a flash of worry; it is clear he will soon be overwhelmed, his previous tactic largely unsuccessful in dividing them and wearing them down.

Drawing back, the heads hiss a single word in unison. And all at once, everything changes. Kallias feels strong magic seize his mind, his bones, but it dissipates. To his left, the druid’s lupine legs buckle, head lolling, struggling against gravity, eyes blank and empty. A risky glance over his shoulder reveals a battered Eirian the same, the halfling not far off. Only he and Cordylia remain in control of their senses, it seems.

Soakosh’s heads hiss, lips curling back in displeased scowls when it sees Kallias still stands, unaffected by his Divine Word. Agitated, the snakes twitch and thrash before taking advantage of the dragonborn’s concern for his comrades.

Kallias’ gaze swings back to the anathema as if in slow motion, meeting six other pairs of eyes as each serpentine head charges, fangs bared. He cannot get his shield up in time before the first jaws clamp around his shoulder, teeth managing to find each necessary crease in his armor to reach his body beneath. The second catches his sword arm mid-swing at the elbow, exploiting the gaps left by his gauntlet. The third takes advantage of this and targets his hand, biting almost completely through it, back to palm, in hopes he might drop his weapon. The last two – the countenances of Dendar and Sseth – shed malicious grins before striking one after the other at his throat.

Though it is quick, it is devastating. There is a fury compounded upon Soakosh’s strength. Kallias barely has time to fall to the earth when they release him before a claw meets his side, knocking the wind from his gut. He buckles, vision swimming, managing with miraculous luck to just barely block another swipe with his shield. The blow reverberates through his entire body. Joints jarred, the paladin watches Soakosh’s thick tail begin to wrap around him, dizziness causing his freckled scales to swirl around more than once.

Kallias slips free of the coils from the slick of his own blood, now flowing freely from the wounds on his throat, arm, and hand. He tumbles to the earth, Soakosh unraveling at first in frustration; but upon setting sights the warrior’s state, lets loose a set of disjointed chuckles. Dark poison branches through the paladin’s veins, spreading as lightning spreads across the sky. He allows Kallias to struggle to his feet before rearing all of his heads back once more, for the last time.

He does not know how he manages it. It feels as if his body is moving on its own. The flurry of attacks bears down on him again. He bashes the first head with the pommel of his sword. The second, his shield whips around and hits it off-course. The third smashes uselessly into his breastplate. The fourth catches its fangs on the edge of the oathblade, while the fifth misses Kallias’ face by inches, whizzing past his left ear. The sixth and final snake weaves through the web of its brethren, hoping to find an opening, only to find none. Kallias’ defense, though his body weakened, is impenetrable. 

Soakosh draws back, incensed and bewildered, beady eyes searching for a reason why he still stands. His many heads glimpse back to the pseudo-mythallar perched atop the ziggurat. Kallias notices the anathema’s muscles tense and turn. He follows its attention to the peak of the pyramid, realization hitting him. His response is automatic. Before Soakosh can slither away, Kallias lifts his blade above his head and plunges it with whatever power he still has left into his tail, pinning and extracting a shrill screech from him. The paladin wills his legs to move, leaping upon the creature’s girth before it can properly react, a yell crescendoing from his bloodied throat as an armored shoulder slams into Soakosh’s chest.

He is already inhaling as deep as his beleaguered lungs would allow as Soakosh hits the ground with a stiff bounce. The snakes fight against the wave of steam he exhales, thick scales peeling off as the soft tissue bubbles and scalds underneath. The head of Dendar is the last to fall, pushing against the current, bits of it falling away as it nears Kallias’ face. Jaws opening, fangs extending, it almost reaches him. But it doesn’t, flesh disintegrating and length falling limply among the others.

Kallias’ shoulders rise and fall with shuddering, wheezing breaths. The stillness feels odd, out of place, surreal. His ears ring to fill the sudden silence. Dragging his eyes from the now deformed head of snakes, he spots Valanthe snapping out of her stupor. Eirian and Gordon, too, though those two somehow found each other since then. Cordylia jogs from the back lines to meet them.

He doesn’t remember making the decision to return to his sword, palm enclosing upon the pommel. But he is there, pulling it free with some effort, when he notices a hoard of figures in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He had been polymorphed into a rat earlier on. It was both hilarious and terrifying. :p


	5. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beneath his rough exterior, he is actually quite self-conscious. Some backstory and introspection after Kallias makes a deal with a banshee to save the lives of his companions.

Ankle-deep in water, she calls you back for goodbyes. Her skin and her hair like yours have absorbed the sun; you pull away quickly – you assumed there would be more when you got back. There always was.

A thin, soft, tentative hand that looks like hers rests on your shoulder: a congratulations for work well-done. You glance up, and he seems genuinely proud. You do your absolute best from then on, hoping, yearning for more. Afterwards, you try to remember how his hand felt on your head, ruffling your hair, whenever you do something well.

You’ve never seen anything like them. They are strange, perhaps frightening, and you’ve been alone for longer than you’ve ever been. Cold, hungry, tired, terrified. But even as you try to back further into the corner you’ve found yourself, they throw down their weapons, their nets, and wait for you to take their hands. They are a lot like yours, you realize, when you finally reach out.

But then, a hand a lot like yours falls on your arm, and it is the last tender thing you feel in a long time. Touch becomes pain. They only touch you to hurt you. And you learn they will only allow you to touch to harm. But you cannot speak. The touch is the only thing that connects you to them, so you seek it. You lose count of the number of sharks attracted to your blood in the water.

The water carries their voices well. Even in your exile, you can hear the soldiers speak at night of love. The desire to touch, to feel, and the desire returned. Would someone ever want to touch  _ you _ ? Would you ever know what it was like to want to touch someone else? You almost find out when they ask to touch the skin of your hand – they’ve never seen anything like you. You see  _ their  _ hands; they are like yours, too, but beautiful. Smooth. At least, you assume. You do not get the chance to know for sure.

You try to explain. He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you because no one would want to touch you. Why would they? Your colors are dark and dull. Your scales are rough. Eadro made a mistake with the locathah, and he made a mistake with you. You think you are special, but your father’s designs will end with you, unless you find someone with a strong enough stomach to bear your children before you die.

Even the man you save from the wreck is eager to leave your shoulder, stumbling and sputtering to the shore. The man at the docks hesitates to take your gold when he sees the hand that holds it. You notice the pause before each handshake after.

When she offers you a child for the lives of your companions, you accept, but not just for those reasons. You think maybe, just maybe, you will finally know what those soldiers spoke of in the dark. But it is only empty. You feel nothing even as your body responds. You feel sick to touches now.

When you dare to touch another genuinely, innocently, you feel her body tense, and you decide to give her a reason to flinch at your touch, for your own sake. It is not you; it is what you have done. You have to touch to heal them. You make sure it is not soft or pleasant. You voice your distaste of it. But when you feel her hand on your shoulder; her arms wrapped around you in an alien, grateful joy; feel her hands to your face to protect you from the pain soon to come, and the same hands that seek to lessen the pain after… you know these touches are real. But you still pull away. You still feel sick.

The only touch that doesn’t make you sick is pain. So, again, you seek it. You fight. You fight battles that are not yours, feign anger over it, but deep down, you are grateful. Because there will always be someone who wants to hurt you. But you never know if there will ever be someone who wants to touch you.


	6. The Paladin 1v1s an Incarnation of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party is ambushed at night in camp by a group of supposedly dead immortals. Kallias is challenged to a fight for their freedom.

Perhaps it wasn’t the most  _ dignified _ choice – but Kallias didn’t regret trying. There was no shame in tactical retreat.

“I was beginning to think no one was here. Are you leaving, friend?”

Kallias wove Zachriel in tight figure eights, his jaw locked and fingers aching from his grip on the reins. He withheld a response, instead daring to delay just a few more moments. The goliath took this as a sign to go on, a sinister loftiness lacing his strained, raspy voice.

“Let us settle this in the way of the warrior. Champion versus champion; in the circle with shields at our backs.” The pale giant gazed around and smiled from beneath his dark mane. “We don’t have shields, but our friends will do.”

Kallias gritted his teeth. “I would be a fool to fight against these odds.” The paladin paused before continuing, his eyes straying to the side before they landed squarely back onto wild-haired warrior, remaining there. “Let us fight alone.”

“No.”

Kallias drew back. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

He scowled, realizing that arguing would be pointless. Unfortunately, he now had to make a decision: fight this otherworldly behemoth or continue to be hunted by this collection of men and monster. Some of which were possible demigods. 

“If I win, you will no longer pursue us?”

“I will no longer pursue you _.  _ I cannot speak for my companions.”

“Not good enough,” he replied. “You will  _ all  _ leave us in peace tonight.”

“They will go too, yes.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You cannot hide when death follows. We will find you.”

With a frustrated snarl, the paladin dismounted his warhorse, stroked his broad muzzle, and sent him off with nothing but a light flick of his head. Zachriel would disappear beyond the murky darkness encompassing them as unflinchingly as he’d entered.

The terms of the duel worried him, and the goliath didn’t seem to care about the issue of fairness. Unwilling to fight him alone, the warrior outlined his desired conditions. “Champion” versus “champion.” Allies could help but not hinder. Looking around, however, Kallias did not see many of his companions at all. Not to mention, his comrades didn’t exactly measure up to the barbarian’s company.

“Careful, Caul.” Ishra’s warning drifted softly from behind. “Dead men can’t obey.”

Kallias marched forward, the eerie bluish light dancing along the curves of his armor, his cloak fluttering languidly behind him. Re-entering the clearing in which they’d made camp, Kallias set himself a good twenty feet from his opponent, who now tore off his clothing to reveal a constellation of open wounds decorating his body, including a massive laceration criss-crossing below his ribcage. They neither festered nor wept; they simply gaped.

“But broken men can kneel.”

The man could barely speak now, his body trembling with adrenaline, veins rising from beneath his skin. The metal sphere lodged in his eye socket began to turn, slowly, as it changed from dark grey to a dull orange to a red hot, the skin sizzling around it. A look of mild disgust swept Kallias’ features – at least, one more pronounced than his usual expression – but he otherwise maintained his impassivity.

Eirian watched as the last enemy—Jaqon, that smug bastard—stepped forward and the ring of black shadow spread to close the dome all around them. From where she knelt on her darkly leaf-obscured bough, the blade at the girl’s side began to sing its agitation, the Song suddenly rising up to thrum insistently in her chest. Her form startled in alarm; was it the call itself or fear of it that threw her heart to racing? 

None below seemed to have spotted her. Balancing tightly-wound, she wrapped one hand on the blade’s hilt, the other palming the rough bark of the tree trunk to ground herself as she observed the field.

From behind the veil of darkness a sickening knot tightened in Valanthe’s stomach. Witch-thorn felt hot in her grip, and the drowess could not quite tell if it was merely her imagination. She could not lose the spear; it was not an option.

Her leg twitched backwards, instinctively. Their pursuers were occupied. All it would take was a new form, and she could be gone…

“ _ Unless you desire to be some collector’s _ toy _ , Gulthias, I suggest you find a way to help my companion win this duel, _ ” she thought, channeling the magic of the spear. Her heartbeat echoed across her body, and she felt some part of the vampire throb in tandem.

Valanthe emerged through the shadows of the dome, Witch-thorn posted at her side.

“You will not stand alone, my friend. I am with you.”

Her brow formed a hard line, and it was all Valanthe could do not to tremble at the sight of them.

Kallias felt a tug at his sword, he looked down and saw it being coated with poison. He heard a small whisper in Gordon’s voice come from the side. “To give your swings a little more bite, my friend.”  Kallias quickly looked away, not wanting to compromise Gordon’s invisibility. Though something in his chest swelled.

Cordylia stood, and from the rose on her staff, frosty mist began to emanate. In a blink, it formed around Kallias’ armor and shield, a swirling, spectral frost. But as Cordylia cast her spell, she changed. Her skin, already frozen and blueish, fell even paler and more icy. Her purple lips were wicked of their color, nearly fading the same shade of blue as her face. Her shining auburn hair faded, muted to a duller brown. It was her eyes, however, that transformed most radically. Cordylia’s once somber, brown gaze flashed a vibrant, magical blue. They glowed unnaturally, bright but cold. Her gaze fixed on Kallias. She bowed her head low to him.  **[Armor of Agathys @ level 6]**

It was difficult to hide all of his surprise when frost began to coat his armor, spreading and growing, until the ice lay thick and jagged across the metal. He glanced over his shoulder to observe Cordylia, her transformation a startling development.

“This power, to you. You have my aid as well,” she offered softly .

He merely gave a deep nod in gratitude before turning back to their pursuers. Kallias did not want to keep his eye off of them for too long.

Valanthe then stepped forward then and stowed the spear at her back, asking, “May I approach to observe your weapon, Caul?”

Caul growls like a wild animal and steps forward menacingly, but stops as Nanna-Sin extends an arm in warning. The man's voice is clear and strong, with a hint of chiding. 

"These are your terms, Caul. Each selects his shield bearers, the weapons are inspected, and then the challenged gets his pick." He gives an amused smile. "As is your way." 

Caul spit into the dirt and then wedged the head of his axe into the ground, suddenly all smiles. He said in his chipper, raspy voice, "Right you are, Chief." He walked over to sit at the base of a tree, whistling tunelessly. His iron eye ceased its rotation and began to cool. Valanthe strode across the clearing, crouching down to inspect the axe in depth.

The axe was incredibly heavy and its metal was jagged along both blades. She stood and turned to face Kallias, then closing the distance between them. She reached up to cradle his face in her hands, chanting as primal energy poured through his body and limbs. “May your feet move faster, your jumps take you farther, your blood be hardy, and your strength be as the Bull's. My faith fights with you... His axe is designed to do something in particular, though I cannot determine what,” she whispered. Valanthe gave him one last look before returning to her party line. **[Enhance Ability: Bull’s Strength; Jump; Longstrider; Protection from Poison]**

Flinching slightly at her touch, Kallias watched as Valanthe murmured her arcane words, not knowing what to expect. It wasn’t until he felt the multiple magicks flow through him, in rapid succession, that a shiver skittered up his spine. He had never quite been affected to this degree by magic before, and it was an entirely new – though not unpleasant – sensation. 

Eirian strained to miss nothing exchanged below over the pull of the Song’s call. In the quiet moments Valanthe convened with their ‘champion’, she reached out, (not without some trepidation) to let in some of the blade’s power. It was abstract but she could feel it, like a primal voice whisper-shouting,  _ Fight, damn you _ ! over and over. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end and prickled as little flickers of its urging shot through her. 

She took in a deep breath, pressing her will desperately back toward Rip’ilsme,  _ We  _ **_can’t_ ** _ interfere yet. He agreed. The terms—we’d risk causing him to forfeit. Please. Not now. _ There was a rush of upset and confusion for her restraint but it soon calmed, the Song settling into a duller hum.

_ I’m no happier about this than you _ . She felt again along their connection, searching, but  _ knowing  _ there was nothing here she could offer Kallias; its power wouldn’t affect anyone else no matter how she desired to help protect him. Eirian’s lip curled into a miserable snarl; she was useless. Nothing in an entire bag of holding that could be of any use to him. Nothing in her. 

But she did have this vantage point. From her perch she was very nearly above their enemies, she would be able to study them and keep an eye on the whole field. If someone else broke rank or...things took a turn, the blade would allow her to reach them from here. That might be worth more than any paltry words of encouragement she could give her companion if she were to abandon it. Resigned, her hand still ready on the songblade’s grip, she settled in to do what she knew best: _watch_.  
Jaqon stepped forward and held his hand out for Kal's sword with a wide grin. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Kallias scoffed, two streams of steam unwittingly funneling from his nostrils, before moving forward as well, flipping his blade in the air so that its hilt pointed towards the devil.

Jaqon grabbed the hilt for a few seconds before his eyebrow quirked up and he loudly asked, "A Paladin with a poisoned blade? Now I truly have seen everything. That will need to come o..."

"Leave it." Caul barked almost urgently.

Jaqon turned to Nanna-Sin, who only nodded. The devil turned to Kal and shrugged. "And what weapon do you choose?"

The paladin held out his hand to Jaqon for his sword back. The devil obliged.

"I have chosen," he stated as he made his way back to the other side, approaching Valanthe and Cordylia. He got close, his gaze settling on each of them for a moment at a time. "Whatever happens, do not interfere. Do you understand? Even if it looks as if I may fall. Zachriel and the other horses will be waiting not far beyond. Flee if you must. Am I clear?"

Valanthe and Cordylia both nodded.

“His eye - he seems to thrive off pain. It may make him stronger, somehow, but it is only a hunch. He did not  _ want  _ the devil to wipe the poison from your blade,” the drowess told him, her eyes sweeping over Caul beneath the tree.

Caul stands and claps the dirt from his hands. "So, all set then." He smiles pleasantly and walks over to heft the axe. "Time for the good work."   


Jaqon nods to Kal and then flicks his finger in a quick circle. In response, a 20ft wall of fire flares around the combatants. He then juts his palm at Caul while muttering in infernal.   


Kallias twirls the hilt of his sword in his hand before leveling it parallel to the ground, its tip pointed at Caul. He utters his own words in Draconic. "Wux re sini." His voice is deep, strong. As the goliath charges him, bathed in a reddish glow, Kallias swings his sword back to his side. "Valignat!" The oathblade erupts in roiling steam. He braces himself, boots dug firmly into the earth, shield at the ready.  **[Vow of the Adversary]**

[Roll initiative]

—

The goliath begins monologuing. 

The warrior’s voice can barely be heard over the roar of the ring of fire around them. “I’ve fought in three campaigns, in seven pitched battles. In countless raids and skirmishes and desperate defences, and bloody actions of every kind. I’ve fought in the driving snow, the blasting wind, the middle of the night. I’ve been fighting all my life, one enemy or another, one friend or another. I’ve known little else. I’ve seen men killed for a word, for a look, for nothing at all. A woman tried to stab me once for killing her husband, and I threw her down a well. And that’s far from the worst of it. Life is cheap as dirt to me. Cheaper.” 

Caul slams his axe against Kal’s shield, necrotic energy ripples down his grey skinned arm and across the shield. As he makes contact, the ice coating it breaks into hard icicle shards that splinter and stab into his flesh. Caul laughs, none of the wounds release any blood.

Kallias swings back. The oathblade slips past the axe that opens a new wound on the man’s chest. He doesn’t so much as flinch. Kallias drags the weapon still wreathed in steam, the runes glowing back for a second swing, this one coming down hard with a radiant smite, taking the brunt of the damage. It comes down and cuts cleanly through his collarbone, digging another six inches down into the flesh, searing all the way. He doesn’t even seem to feel it, despite cutting deep into where his heart and lungs would be, he stumbles back. The rage. The x-shaped cut begins to pull and tear open, dry and gaping to expose ribs beneath. 

“I’ve fought ten single combats and I won them all, but I fought on the wrong side and for all the wrong reasons. I’ve been ruthless, and brutal, and a coward. I’ve stabbed men in the back, burned them, drowned them, crushed them with rocks, killed them asleep, unarmed, or running away. I’ve run away myself more than once. I’ve pissed myself with fear. I’ve begged for my life. I’ve been wounded, often, and badly, and screamed and cried like a baby whose mother took her tit away. I’ve no doubt the world would be a better place if I’d been killed years ago, but I haven’t been, and I don’t know why.” He grins sadly. 

“I'm made of death. There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. None, that I know of. The Great Leveler they called me, my enemies. Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood. It follows me now, always, like my shadow, and like my shadow I can never be free of it. I should never be free of it. I’ve earned it. I’ve deserved it. I’ve sought it out. Such is my punishment.” 

The metal eye burns hot and spins, the goliath going into a wild rage. He hefts the enormous axe as if it weighed no more than a toy, feinting a horizontal slash before switching to a one handed upwards arc that slips past Kallias’ shield to rend a gash in the thick plate from chest to shoulder. As this hit again collides with the frosted aura, the shards leap and shatter, embedding themselves into his flesh, and the protective energy fades. Kal looks down to see the edges of the torn metal eroding away into wisps of black smoke. Caul swings again, Kallias bringing up his blade to block the force. Even with his ability to seemingly ignore pain, he looks poor. His eye is completely unfocused, as if he’s looking past Kal. 

Foshka is upset and frustrated and looks if he’d like to physically attack Valanthe, but is holding back. Nanna-sin is completely unarmed, wearing plain clothing, the blue light has no strange effect and he makes eye contact with Valanthe as he strides toward her, giving her a nod as if they are old friends meeting by chance. 

Ishra looks worried and anxious while she looks at the fight, eyes on Caul.

Jaqon appears to just be concentrating on his fire spell. 

Kallias swings at the sideways across cutting Caul’s belly, 

He stumbles forward, as if he can hardly hold himself up. 

The second swing hits near his neck, the blade slamming into bone. He falls to his knees, the axe falling to the ground at his side. Everyone, including Nanna-sin steps backward. The eye begins to spin furiously.

“No. I do not kneel. I am death. The Storm in the High Places. You kneel before me. The great leveler cannot die.”

The body looks dead, it seems impossible for him to continue, yet he sways and steadies himself once more in a brief lull. 

Eirian can tell this is what Ishra was waiting for. 

Nanna-sin says casually to Valanthe, “The moonlight shines well on thee.”

Valanthe gives him a look, “Thank you...I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment though.”

He nods and turns back toward the fight. “Mm. Your friend fights well. I hope he prevails.”

She side-eyes him confused, “As do I.” 

Caul stands up, the axe still on the ground, and launches himself at Kallias, grabbing at the shield and the shoulder of his plate armor and pushing him back toward the wall of fire. As he begins to be pushed back, Kallias tries to dig into the ground below him. He can’t overcome the man’s strength, and is forced back into the flames, which lick up at Caul’s arms as well. 

He then headbutts Kallias, his forehead slamming with a loud crack into the chest of his armor. 

Kallias tries desperately to break out his grip but they both remain with the range of the flames. The body holding him does slightly relent, as if it is completely falling apart.

Kallias pushes back out of the wall of fire and unhinges his jaw and sprays steam full blast into him. It enters the cuts and holes and begins to slough off all the skin it touches. The steam rises to fill the entire circle of fire. When it clears, Kallias stands, haggard but over the mutilated body of Caul, kneeling, the metal eye ceases its spin and again grows cold.

After only a few seconds his form begins to stand again, falling apart and reaching out. Ishra appears beside the form simultaneously and gives Kallias a quick nod, and all seven of them disappear. No trace of unnatural shadow or light. Just the ring of tiny embers in the grass and the blue glow of the oathblade’s runes. 


	7. A Kiss with a Fist is Better than None

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the paladin is challenged to a brawl by a very drunk barbarian.

Strange things, whatever this man was selling. Vegetables, fruit — he couldn’t tell. They varied so much in shape and size and color that the paladin grabbed one from the broken wagon with his free hand to inspect. No fragrance besides the smell of residual earth. The flesh grew thick, as evidenced by the force needed to dig a nail into it. Likely just another random root to throw into pots of other roots as the people here were so fond of doing. Mouth drawing into a thin, dissatisfied line, Kallias returned the gourd to its place.

None of his other companions seemed too… well-versed in wagon maintenance. It appeared they underestimated the bulk of the new wheel, taking at least two to manage it. Between the malnourished Eirian, the squat Gordon, the bookish Cordylia, and the clueless Valanthe, it proved quite a show. For him, at any rate. Kallias’ glance glided to passersby heading towards inns and other places of rest: where he’d like to be after a long day of travel. But, no. Apparently they hadn’t filled their ‘good samaritan’ quota for the week. Not as if they’d just returned from encountering deformed demigods and other various monstrosities over the course of an entire month – maybe longer.

Despite the harried condition of his armor, it still weighed on his shoulders just the same. Limbs ached, muscles vaguely sore from lack of proper rest. A subtle yet persistent enough throb behind his eyes. Scales torn, burned, or rubbed off growing back with the itch of stretching skin. Ghosts of all these discomforts not present enough to warrant complaints. 

As if on cue, his spine twinged, and with a silent huff, Kallias straightened a bit and lifted the wagon with him.

“Oi!” The slurred, gruff bark went mostly unregistered. “ _Yew_ , wif the armor—”

Kallias’ head swiveled in his typical slow, disinterested yet begrudgingly acknowledging manner, eyes harboring the same sentiment as they honed in on the source, hoping (uselessly) that the shouts were not for him. Words matched the man: a large, greasy gentleman with beard indistinguishable from the rest of his hair; a mane more than anything. The apples of his cheeks and button of his nose were stained red from drink; eyes glassy with a sputtering spark of lucidity fading quickly; the bare, tattooed chest beneath his jacket shining with spilled liquor.

“—I would like a piece o’ that,” the stranger growled, body swaying. The mercenary’s boots clacked upon the weathered wood of the ‘Stoop’ on which he teetered: a porch more than a tavern, though apparently popular all the same as it bustled without and within. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone; his company and onlookers alike sent the paladin a puzzling salute.

The taunt elicited no more than a solid blink at first. It wasn’t until the cackling continued and fingers began to point that Kallias betrayed any sort of confusion.

“‘A piece of…’?” he echoed softly, obviously unfamiliar with the turn of phrase.

“Come ta big Papa Abel.” Large, calloused fingertips began to circle his nipples, tongue sliding between his yellowed teeth, brow jumping up and down. “Come get some.”

Kallias’ posture corrected itself stiffly as he drew back, though not out of any sort of offense. Gourds hopped and jostled with the sudden momentum. A small but familiar snort sounded at his side. Eirian returned his somewhat uncomfortable gaze with an entertained look of her own.

A skeptical frown. “I am confused. Is he asking for… a _fight_? Or—”

A roll of the eyes. “—‘Course he wants a fight; he’s just taunting you.”

A scowl. “He certainly has an odd way of showing it.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Couldn’t hurt much more than your last fight,” the rogue smirked and shrugged, obviously referring to their friend, the undead demigod Caul. “And this would be a match for fun — not to the _death._ ”

“Ah. I forgot you were the expert on ‘fun,’” he countered flatly. The half-elf’s sneer only widened.

“Another chance to prove you aren’t hopeless at it. Who knows?” She circled back around on her tiptoes. “You might like it. Relieve some tension. Do something different. Put on a show.”

“A show,” he repeated, deadpan. He opened his mouth to gripe on but was interrupted again by those on the Stoop.

“All that armor just for show, then?” one teased as the rest intermittently joined in.

“Cannae fight wit’ nothin’ not sharp.”

“Look at ‘im; maybe we jus’ shoutin’ at some poor twit.” Laughter boomed. “‘Ead as ‘ollow as ‘is fancy plate!”

The paladin challenged the wave of insults with not much more than an apathetic expression. They dragged on, remarks growing both more preposterous and more indecent. Kallias turned away to check in on the repairs again. What was taking so long? If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think his companions dallied _on purpose_ , happy to enjoy his public beratement.

A whimsical _yoo-hoo_ snagged his attention once more; this time, ‘Abel’ flitted his hand in a dainty wave as another finger lay planted on his chin, hips swinging back and forth, girlish giggles a stark contrast to the otherwise masculine slurs and shouts.

Cordylia chirped a proud “Done!” from below. Sighing, Kallias dropped the carriage without warning, uninterested in the whining wood they’d just mended and instead finally turned to address his hecklers.

“I cannot say you’re my type,” he wryly countered, rounding his way to Zachriel. “Why not ask after my companion here?” The paladin gestured to Gordon who followed up with a signature wink. The group booed – not at the halfling – but at Kallias’ refusal.

“‘Ear that, boys? Guess I ain’t good enough for ser knight!” Abel almost sounded genuinely hurt. Almost. “Well _I_ _say_ ‘e cannae handle this much man is what I say.” Cheers arose in solid agreement.

“Don’ listen ta ‘im, Abel. ‘e don’ know what ‘e’s missin’!”

“Widdat big ol’ ‘orse and big ol’ sword, _maybe_ ‘e’s compensatin’ for summat?”

“Aye! It’s ‘im who don’ deserve _YOU!”_

Was the barbarian _actually_ getting emotional? “You boys is family, you is. Ye always know what t’ say.” It was impossible to tell. Kallias wouldn’t rule it out, shitfaced as he was.

The back-and-forth had garnered more spotlight than Kallias ever would have liked. Upon hearing poor Abel’s plight, traveler after traveler seemed to rally behind him. Hands worked efficiently at the warhorse’s saddle in efforts to ignore it all. It didn’t work.

Fight for fun? The concept barely registered. The tritons might even consider it unacceptable. One fought for duty and honor. Pain was punishment for mistakes. While he could not deny rushes of excitement during combat, Kallias hardly regarded the feeling as _fun._ He enjoyed succeeding, sure; and he enjoyed watching others succeed at it, too. So why was he having such a difficult time comprehending it? Was the fun derived from testing one’s skills against another’s? Or was it the action of fighting in and of itself – rehearsing the movements that had served one well? Perhaps. Without the threat of death, what motivated them to fight? ‘Fights for fun’ typically had no real risk or reward; a few coppers, maybe, but not much more. Satisfaction? Entertainment? He could certainly respect a duel, but to have it be something he anticipated? Sought?

Kallias pushed the thoughts from his mind. Those on the Stoop still incited the crowd. He could feel more eyes falling upon him. Half to himself and half to the throng of drunkards, Kallias sighed.

“I suppose a fight for ‘fun’ would be new.”

Cheers detonated so suddenly that even the paladin jumped to some degree. Before Kallias could amend or otherwise add to his statement, Abel called out to the bartender as the rest scrambled inside – sometimes through, and sometimes over one another. Molten regret pooled in the paladin’s gut. Either he’d sustained some unnoticed head injury or had yet to recover from blood loss, because he could find no other logical reason why his feet marched forward without much sayso. 

—

What he’d thought was something between him and Abel devolved into the opposite: like a match to tinder, his _wonderful_ compatriots caught on and fanned the fire. Eirian’s pale form stood out against the well-worn drifters, whispering in ears and stirring up fervor. He caught snippets of such gems as “dandy,” “the bigger the dumber,” and “as green as my gram’s bad foot and just as useless.” As if the crowd hadn’t already picked a side, they overwhelmingly placed bets against him now. The bookie? Gordon, of course. A petulant groan rumbled in his throat for none to hear.

“Kind of you to go around _insulting_ me when _you_ said I should do this.”

“Oh hush,” Eirian dismissed, candid. “Just stirring them up. This Abel is their man, they know him. You’re the outsider, the challenger, the _underdog_ .” Kallias cocked a brow at her emphases. “We raise the stakes this way. Get them invested in more ways than one.” An offhanded point. “ _You_ agreed. Why do it halfway? Play your part and give the people a show.” Her wink and his rolling of the eyes nearly synced.

That wasn’t all. A familiar voice boomed over the rest, calling for higher stakes and generating even more noise. The only one he didn’t see or hear was Valanthe, but he found it difficult to think she would participate regardless. Seems she had chosen well, for once.

How all these people managed to fit into the tavern, Kallias had no clue. His elbows constantly jabbed into someone as he started to unbuckle the belts holding his armor – not intentional; simply unavoidable. Wouldn’t matter anyway; heavily painted women zeroed in like vultures to a carcass, fingers navigating the breaks in his plate in an effort to help him disrobe. Before he even had a chance to argue, a set of lips brushed a bit too close to his ear.

“Not to worry, big boy. I’ll keep your armor safe. I _promise_.” Warm-breathed chuckles caressed the skin of his neck. There was no helping the resulting goosebumps.

As soon as she was there, she was gone again, replaced by another: an assembly line of women taking him apart piece by piece along the path to the ring. And as much as he would’ve liked to protest, doffing the armor alone would have taken much longer. At this point, he just wanted this settled as soon as possible. The relief that overcame him once the last piece of his armor fell almost immediately dissipated when the hands returned to liberate him of his undershirt and boots as well. The sheer volume of people kept him from stumbling. They also kept him from leaving. Overwhelmed, apprehensive, Kallias doubted he could fight the current carrying him forth.

His spine suddenly stiffened, scales prickling, as something viscous dripped down his back from his shoulders. Women lathered his skin with oil in broad, sweeping circles, splashing more on his chest. Gordon popped out of the crowd – and Kallias was _almost_ happy to see him – rolling up his sleeves, moustache perked and curled. Before the rogue could get close, a stranger managed to dissuade Gordon from going any further, to which the halfling momentarily sulked and then bounced back within seconds. Attempts to mask his discomfort proved valiant yet ultimately futile. Touches wandered and had Kallias doing his best to subtly shift them off or away. The ladies did not mind; this was more of an advertisement to potential customers looming in the crowd than a move on the paladin. (Unless he liked it, of course.)

The ring itself was little more than a patch of dirt (or had the floorboards beneath simply eroded?) surrounded by shoddy barriers that looked as if they’d been destroyed so many times that the resident carpenter had given up. Beams supporting the building itself drew the boundaries as well, unsettlingly enough. They, too, had been reinforced in… _creative_ ways. It should not have been able to hold against the wild throngs, but it did. Abel was already there, straddling the fence opposite Kal, stumbling to the dusty earth. The paladin cleared it easily enough. Someone tugged on his hand before he could get very far, however. Eirian had reappeared, this time nonchalantly wrapping his hands in gauze or some kind of fabric.

“What are you doing?”

She sent him a perturbed look, binding effortlessly though her eyes lay elsewhere. “What does it look like? No fun in broken knuckles.”

“Oh. Well…” Kallias shot a glance over his shoulder. “I suppose I do not know this works, exactly. I assumed it would be like sparring.”

The half-elf’s head tilted. “Not quite. It’s similar in a lotta ways, but here, you’re gonna have to knock ‘im out. No disarming, disabling, or anything like that.”

“There are no limits? No arbiter?”

“Of course there are! Gods. I told you you’re not tryin’ to kill each other.” Eyes rolled and pale hair bounced as she shook her head. Exhaling, she went on. “Crowd’s the ‘arbiter,’ I guess. No official go-between. _They_ decide who wins.”

Kallias’ narrowed eyes snapped to the half-elf’s face. “You are joking, right?”

“Nope. It’s not just about winning the fight— it’s fighting to win their favor, too.”

The paladin’s shoulders sagged. “This would have been _valuable_ information to have earlier,” he snarled through a clenched jaw. Kallias drew in closer. “There is no _way_ that is feasible. These people already _like_ this man… People do not like me, Eirian!”

She laughed in his face. “And what do you think _we’ve_ been doing? Just running around? We are _well-aware_ of your… _lacking_ personality. It’s easy to manipulate a crowd, especially one like this. We’ll do what we can, but you gotta try to win them over, too. ‘Play your part, give ‘em a show’; remember?”

“I thought the fighting _was the show!_ ”

She shrugged. “You thought wrong.” Eirian tucked the frayed ends of the bandaging in to secure them, followed by a solid clap to his shoulder. “There. Should be good.” 

The tavern erupted, and a glance behind hinted that things were soon to commence. Abel – bare-chested, oiled, hands wrapped just as his were – rolled his shoulders and grunted with a crescendoing intensity. When Kallias turned back to Eirian, she had gone, and he was now alone in a dirt pit with a very large, very eager, and very drunk man.

An unpleasant sensation settled into his skin. Perhaps it was instinct, or maybe the result of drills and mantras force-fed to him in the Legion, but standing quite bare and surrounded on all sides by dozens of people went against everything he’d practiced since the tritons took him. No shield, no partner – an otherwise nightmarish scenario. Kallias took a deep breath and held it.

The two fighters’ gazes happened to cross, and Abel charged.

— 

Too much conditioning to be caught entirely off-guard; Kallias redirected Abel with a shove into the reaching hands at the sidelines. A clench of the eyes, a clear of the throat – there had been no countdown, no warning. Falling into stance, aggravation aimed inward, Kallias watched and waited. 

The wild onlookers tossed the barbarian back into the ring. Abel barreled forward with that momentum, reaching the paladin before he could properly react. Thick, hairy arms clinched Kallias’ body. The oil made more sense now – Kallias broke free more smoothly than he’d expected. A curt chuckle escaped his throat. He thought to take advantage of this and swing, but the drunkard proved surprisingly agile. The paladin’s fist whiffed over his head. Abel whipped back and planted a solid headbutt at his chin.

His mind swam in tandem with the uproar. It faded soon enough, but left him nursing his jaw with a hand. Despite it, he learned the grizzled man favored his right side. Kallias retaliated with two fast, sequential strikes with this in mind, landing the first but falling short on the second as the barbarian staggered back. Kallias blinked, pleasantly surprised. One was better than none. The tritons did not bother to include much hand-to-hand combat in their training regiments. If fighting ever devolved to that, it was likely already too late. ‘Sparring’ was monitored and controlled. Altercations between soldiers went harshly punished.

Pain had always been a good motivator. Sometimes, the only motivator. At least, for him. He’d had nothing to fight for with the tritons – no home, no family, no honor to maintain or expectations to meet. Avoiding Dharzas’ wrath (not that he made it any easier for himself) and later on staying alive were the only two motivations he’d ever really had. Coming to Glaivenport hadn’t exactly been a wish of his. To deny such an opportunity instead felt foolish and wasteful. He traveled to the city and prodded the powers that be because he thought he should. Why _wouldn’t_ he leverage such information? Why _wouldn’t_ he put his foot in the door and forge a reputation? Isn’t that in part what he swore to Eadro?

This had nothing to do with his oath or Eadro, though. He did not fight in the name of his god here. It was just him and a strange, inebriated man brawling because they _could._ All around him, these people _celebrated_ this pointless violence. But was it the violence? Or was it the strength?

Abel snatched one of the several tankards sloshing amid the sea of spectators, and it looked to Kal more like dousing himself with the ale than drinking it. Abel flung the empty cup aside and roared his way. The sound came from deep in the man’s chest. Guttural and raw, it registered as more beast than man. Kallias felt it in his skin. Scales began to rise until he willed them back down. 

Normally, doing so was relatively easy. He’d had plenty of practice. _‘If you act like an animal, you will be treated like one.’_ And normally, he could rationalize the feeling away. Words replaced body language when it came to a majority of communication topside. Either way, Kallias squinted awkwardly as his pupils grew and shrunk in and out of focus. Scales refused to lay completely flush. Perhaps it was the hits he’d already taken, but instinct superseded what he saw right in front of him. Jarring, and uncomfortable. Confusing.

Abel bolted without much thought to form or strategy, a savage blankness in his eyes that felt… familiar. Too much thinking – geared up for another attack from the right, Kallias instead met the barbarian’s left fist as it smashed into his cheek. Muscle and bone crackled, tore. He tasted blood on his tongue and rivulets creeping down his neck. Mindful fingertips dabbed at a wide split at his cheekbone. For the second time, Kallias had to take a moment to allow the dizziness to fade. Luckily for him, Abel did not exploit this opening; instead, he cackled, a wide grin smeared across his mouth.

“Not so pretty now, boy!”

He never understood that insult. But now wasn’t the time to try. There was too much going on. The fight, the crowd, the noise, the pain, the anticipation, the confusion, the rationalization. He had to get out of his head.

_Act like an animal, get treated like one._

Should he just listen to what the primitive part of his brain told him? It was growing more difficult to ignore.

This was a challenge of territory, not of coin. An assertion of dominance. Like the elders admonishing the young when they try to feed. The change was like going from hot to cold water: sudden, yet refreshing. The body rushing to adjust. And when it did, it was as if there had never been a difference at all. A shiver skittered up Kallias’ spine. All at once, it felt… acceptable. Comprehensible.

Simple enough for a buck to challenge another buck. But he was a soldier, and Abel was a fighter. And this made a world of difference. Kallias needed to ascertain exactly what type of animal Abel was. He lifted a hand, fingers waving back and forth in wary invitation – yet unable to ward off the faintest of smirks.

Abel darted forward, Kallias’ first fist grazing to distract from the other flying in at full speed. The barbarian reeled just as Kallias had moments before; and he, too, remained standing. They each appeared to be skirting their thresholds, bruises blooming and flesh swelling. Blood streamed from the barbarian’s ear and split brow, flooding his bloated eye. Nevertheless, a primal fury continued to bubble in the black of Abel’s pupils, and the mob stoked his rage with jeers and screams. It was at that moment Kallias recognized what was happening. The entire time, he’d been trying to figure out where he’d experienced this before.

The answer came to him as swiftly as the punch to his gut: Caul. 

The paladin crashed against the rickety barrier, splinters showering to the floor. Not used to getting hit there, at least not recently; he’d always worn armor covering the most vulnerable areas of his body. Kallias had to urge his diaphragm to let him breathe. The bombardment didn’t relent, even as he landed a solid retaliatory blow. Abel slipped another jab firmly into his side, and the paladin buckled. 

Blood freckled the dirt beneath him. Was it from the gash on his cheek or his nose or lip? No way to tell. Kallias sported a wry grin, knowing that he would not be able to win this fight by ordinary means. This man was tapping into something, some power, that only drove him the more he felt pain – just like Caul and his burning eye. Each landed strike benefited the barbarian; his anger fueled his endurance, blinded him to the sting. The longer this went on, the chances of winning lessened considerably.

Kallias hadn’t even considered harnessing his abilities in this fight. He figured it would be against the rules – frowned upon, at the very least. But no one seemed bothered with Abel’s displays. No fouls called. Why did it still feel wrong? There were always rules, always standards, always structure. Battle formations, tactics, mantras. If you do not follow instructions, you are punished, either by those in charge or by your enemies on the battlefield. Here and now, however… Kallias was being punished for playing fair. For holding back. An odd sensation accompanied the acceptance of this realization.

Abel was being Abel. Kallias had always been the legionnaire, the paladin, the face of the Dawnguard. His stomach twisted in both amusement and excitement. How much _shorter_ would this fight had been if he’d actually just _fought?_ If he’d used what was at his disposal without fears of impropriety? Both his eyes and his grin brightened.

The harsh, sibilant words dissolved amid the heckles, the shouts. As the vow sunk in, the room disappeared. A deep breath held in the lungs; body moving faster than his brain. For the first time that night, Kallias closed the gap between the two of them. No feint, no positioning: Kallias cocked his shoulder back and punched through the barbarian’s defenses with brute strength. Light flickered along his knuckles and up his arm, dissipating like a trick of the eye. But for his companions scattered about, this was an all too familiar phenomenon. 

Kallias’ fist collided with Abel’s pocked, greasy skin. Light suffused beneath it – lightning trapped in a cloud – before being absorbed, illuminating tissue and capillaries. The drunk shot back, through the shoddy barricade, not to rise. The briefest of silences ensued as the dust quite literally settled. The dragonborn stood, pose still hunched and ready, chest heaving. After a short moment, the ends of Kallias’ almost too-wide grin sank back down. The fleeting calm ushered his senses back, one-by-one.

When reality rematerialized, Kallias hurried to translate the expressions and noises around him. Sound had completely replaced the air. Upturned mouths, lifted brows; arms raised, some bouncing up and down or shaking the person beside them. Their gazes locked onto him as they cheered. Some still cursed, yes, but the overall atmosphere had gone from predominantly hostile to supportive, and the paladin had not noticed the transition.

Kallias did only what barely came to mind: he marched to Abel’s still form. With help, the drunk righted himself as a drunk who’d just taken a few hits to the head might. The paladin thought he might collapse; instead, the barbarian brought their foreheads together. Even at that proximity, Kal could barely hear him speaking.

A warm rumble laced his otherwise gruff voice. “That was a good fight, boy.”

“Yes.” Kal exhaled, blindsighted by this camaraderie. A smile twitched on his lips.

The moment ended almost as suddenly as it began, and the battered drunkard broke away and hobbled off. Bystanders surged into the ring. Kallias hovered above most of those around him – a clear view of everything yet unable to digest it. His attention remained anchored to his opponent as he melded into the masses. What now?

No need to decide – the mob swarmed and herded Kallias towards the bar. Coppers clinked on the scratched and stained bartop as people insisted on buying him a congratulatory brew. The same occurred not but a few feet away where Abel had settled. He’d spent enough time at the Hearth to know that he should do the same. Regaining most of his mental capacities, the paladin slunk between bodies to better catch the barman’s attention.

“One,” he pointed a wrapped and bloodied finger up to indicate, “for my opponent.” He could barely finish his request as high-pitched whistles and various hurrahs sprung from those around him. “The strongest you have, please.”

The bartender’s shook his head but simply ducked under the counter. He resurfaced with a dark-hued glass jug with a large cork, sloppy dwarven script gracing a small tag tied through its loop. Any dwarves in the immediate vicinity burst into howls and whoops. The crowd swelled once more, bringing the two brawlers closer, the bartender pouring a _pair_ of messy glasses. With one last flourish, the barkeep snapped his fingers above the shots, and they ignited. Kallias blinked, the rest of his body unmoving, already at the ‘denial’ stage of grief. Abel slapped a heavy hand onto Kal’s shoulder, raising the pint he already held as if to toast the incoming drink. 

“Down the ‘atch!” Abel swept the glass up into his free hand, unconcerned of the flame, and slugged it in one go. Even _he_ grimaced as the liquor (quite literally) burned his throat. Slamming the empty cup down, the barbarian erupted in a disjointed, raspy, yet victorious roar.

Kallias’ eyes swung to his own. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, lingering adrenaline, or, the most likely cause: a concussion, but Kallias gave up caring. How bad could it really be for someone who spewed _scalding steam_ from his own mouth? 

The answer made every single hair _and_ scale on his body immediately stand on end, tempered only by the intense shudder that followed. When his eyes managed to reopen, the paladin stared down at the hand he’d left on the bar. Claws dragged through the wood, firmly stuck. The moonshine seared through his entire body, down and back up again, ending its journey riding out on an emphatic exhale. Uproarious laughter and cheers all around. Abel plopped a palm to the top of his head and ruffled his mess of hair.

His ears rang. His skin tingled. His chest burned. His head felt like it tumbled in an undercurrent. None of it deterred his silly, genuine smile. 


End file.
